Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own any of this.
The morning after, John unsurprisingly wakes up first – but very shockingly, he finds himself spooning the detective. He doesn't usually move in his sleep, but it appears he must have this time, because instinctively rolling away, he doesn't fall out of the bed as he would otherwise have.
He finds himself immediately missing his companion's warmth and…more, but there's simply no choice. Normal physiological reactions he's very much not immune to (aka morning wood, or - as his panicked brain trying to calm himself down by blabbering medical terms insists - penile tumescence), as ordinary as they are, are not acceptable in company. Not unless everyone is on board with it. The blogger thanks his luck that he woke before he started rutting against the deliciously firm body against his. They might be faking marriage, but there are limits, surely.
He quietly slips out of bed and tiptoes to the shower, glad that the army yelled tidiness into him, so that he can take the few things he needs without turning on the light. The room isn't too cluttered by furniture, so that he isn't in danger of stumbling over chairs or chest of drawers.
When he finally closes the door behind him and gets in the shower, he finally can panic in peace. And rub one off, because it never be said that he isn't good at multitasking. Fine, the orgasm takes precedence over anything else, with the feel of Sherlock against him still alight in his nerves. But he does shower, and – as soon as he can think – scolds himself harshly for the near-disaster (and why has he moved tonight of all nights?).
When he's done – a thorough wash and several deep breaths later – he goes back to the bedroom…and almost jumps to the ceiling when his companion drawls a still sleepy, "Good morning."
"I hoped that I'd been quiet enough not to wake you," he replies, feeling instantly guilty. As if masturbating to thoughts of his friend wasn't bad enough – he's woken the insomniac. Way to start the day.
"It was cold," the sleuth complains. Which, considering that the bed is well-equipped with covers, under which the man is entirely buried, and that – John can testify – his friend is wearing pyjamas, sounds like bullshit. But sure. It's not like the blogger is going to call him out on it.
"Go back to sleep," John urges, fully intending to leave the room in search of sustenance.
"Come back to bed," the detective retorts, "I know that we're supposedly having troubles, but you not being able to stand to be in the room with me, beyond the barest hours of sleep, would speak of a deeper crisis than I'd like to project – and one much more likely to end in divorce."
"Uhm…where did you get this? Because sometimes people just have different schedules, and it doesn't mean they hate each other's guts, you know," the doctor says, undressing to his pants and getting back to the bed anyway, because denying Sherlock anything has always been difficult for him.
"Yes, but you don't need to get to work. The only scheduled activity here is our therapy session…and that's a shared one," the consulting detective points out. He sighs and adds, "Fine…maybe I formed my idea of a happy couple's life from my parents. But doesn't everyone?"
"Of course. I admit my parents weren't the best of models…which might be why I consider each one doing their own thing, with as little contact as possible, the ideal option. I'm sorry about that. I'll try to be a better actor, and not upset you needlessly. That's the point of this case, isn't it?" John admits.
Maybe 'giving – and requesting – as much space as possible' (for cases of course, but not necessarily – it was a habit of his long before he met the detective) isn't the best conduit when one wants lasting relationships. A bit of space, sure. Practically a highway – well, before they complained of having to compete with Sherlock, many of his girlfriend would grouse that study or sport or something else was his priority, instead of them. It was just easier to dismiss them as 'not understanding' when so many people considered these activities as reasonable commitments, unlike running after a reckless flatmate. Oh great. He's psychoanalysing himself even before he gets at the shrink.
His serious course of thought is brusquely interrupted when his bed companion huffs discontentedly at the empty space between them, and rolls against him. The blogger doesn't try to get away, mostly because he would tumble on the floor if he did, but exhales in a rush, shocked.
"I said I was cold," Sherlock complains, never mind that the long feet pressed against the other's ankles belie his words. Oh well. If the man wants a longer cuddle, for whatever reason (method acting, maybe?) the doctor is not going to be the one to protest.
It might feel awkward, but it is so very pleasant, too…and soon any lingering tension leaves his body once again. So much so, that John's arm slips, and accidentally encircles the other's stomach.
At the sleuth's instinctive, sharp drawing of breath, his blogger moves it back, but before he can go back to 'proper' posture, a hand comes to grip his arm and put it back. "It's okay," Sherlock whispers, "I didn't expect it now…but I do need data on you. Things I would know if we were truly married."
"Fine. Just let me know when you're tired of it, will you?" John queries, just as softly. So it *is* for the sake of their pretence. He can't help the wave of disappointment, even if there was no other possible reason.
"Of course, now quiet. Don't distract me," the detective huffs.
His blogger does…after allowing himself just a second to chuckle. Sherlock might behave like a git, but he's rather adorable when he becomes all commanding about apparent nonsense, not that the doctor could ever tell him that. Ostensibly it is a mind palace thing, and it's rather flattering that – even for a day, and just for a case – he would be deemed worthy of his 'personal data' being kept inside his friend's brilliant brain. Quite a difference from when his very presence is a forgettable detail.
It takes two hours for the consulting detective to be satisfied with his archiving – or perhaps it's John's stomach that disturbs him with a gurgle, not used to having to wait that long to be fed upon waking. With an awkward laugh from John, and an embarrassed apology from Sherlock, they finally get up and go in search of food, after the sleuth gets ready lightning-quick to go out.
The hotel employee smiles at them, and – at John's request – suggests a nice, cosy café for them to have breakfast. The detective deduces that it's run by the employee's sister, but John decides to give it a chance all the same, and he isn't disappointed. "You don't have to assume the worst every time, love," he says, biting with relish into a chocolate croissant. The endearment slips out of his mouth without him even noticing.
"I'm not sure if you're trying to lecture me or curry favour, with your random blandishment. It's confusing," the sleuth replies, frowning.
"Or maybe I am just speaking my mind, without calculating my words for either effect. I'm just an idiot, you know. I know I have no right to lecture anyone – it doesn't mean I can't make suggestions. And I don't need to 'curry favour', Sherlock. You agreed to marry me. I'm assuming you're already biased in my favour, no matter how annoyed you are with me some days – or even most of them," John retorts, with a cheeky smile. "All I hope is that you might enjoy yourself, without overthinking things. I just want you to – you know – be happy," he continues softly.
"Really, John?" Sherlock queries, in earnest. It's so confusing seeing him, hearing him, and having to remind himself every few minutes that this is a play. They're acting, and nothing – nothing at all – will be sincere until they are back to Baker Street. Never mind that he wishes they could work through some honest issues. He'll have to manipulate his way to that – if he can.
"Of course, love," his blogger assures, the endearment intentional this time. He can use the shield of the case to say all the truths he's ever felt, and blame it on the need of not compromising the investigation. Their hotel is close to the therapist's office, and if the killer keeps track of the goings on there, they could very well be in the area. If they blow their cover story before even starting, that would be too humiliating. "I really want to do things right this time. I'm sorry if we've had our misunderstandings, but we're here to stop that, aren't we?"
"Yeah, we are. Thanks for agreeing to that. I know I come across the wrong way…well, practically always – no idea how you didn't flee the very first day you met me, honestly – that's why I thought we needed help. I don't want to lose you, Jaw –," the sleuth's slip up is cleverly interrupted by his partner feeding him a dollop of whipped cream with the tip of his finger. He's made a mistake. He never makes a mistake. What is happening to him? His plan of being honest while pretending to lie is backfiring splendidly before the Work even started.
"If you do, you could stop teasing me about being afraid of sharks during our honeymoon," John quips kindly.
Oh. Brilliant save. Brilliant. Just one more reason to love this man.